


For Every Moon, A Star

by HourofWakening



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HourofWakening/pseuds/HourofWakening
Summary: Our favourite king and queen of Resdayn are getting politically married... pass the sujamma and the angst!Thank you to Ascended Sleepers for organising this event and for being a wonderful inspiration in this fandom. Thanks also to Boethiah and Sashacore on tumblr (I can't remember your AO3 names off the top of my head, sorry) for your posts, writing, and enthusiasm for all things First Council. I really would not have been brave enough to write this without any of you. I hope you and anyone else who happens to read this enjoy it!(Quick note... I will eventually finish my pieces for some of the other prompts, but I'll post them in the coming weeks/months and not within the timeframe of this fest. I considered just posting shorter teasers for them now, but decided that I want to do them justice.)
Relationships: Dumac/Indoril Nerevar, Indoril Almalexia/Indoril Nerevar
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16
Collections: Holiday TES Fanfic Fest!





	For Every Moon, A Star

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [kagrena (spacemagic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemagic/pseuds/kagrena) in the [Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> I'd like to see something involving at least one member of the First Council set during Nerevar and Almalexia's wedding. It could be focussed on romance - Almalexia/Vivec and Nerevar/Voryn are two obvious go-to ships here, and Nerevar/Dumac would also be a good shout too - that could be either an introspective piece or something could happen - are people to open and overt about past or present relationships? It could also be about the complex dynamic between Almalexia and Nerevar themselves, and some dilemmas and doubts and hesitations they might be having. Or it could be something more general about the difficulties of diplomatic relations between the Dwemer and Chimer. Up to you. I've tagged Almalexia and Nerevar (obviously) but those don't need to be major focusses at all. Just bring enough drama.

They began the morning at the Indoril family shrine, with solemn prayer and offerings to the honoured dead, and in the afternoon, in the courtyard gardens of the Mournhold palace, they were married. It was the fifteenth of First Seed, a clear, fresh day in Mournhold, and mer from across Resdayn crowded the public galleries of the palace, eager to take part in what had become more than just a wedding; the Nordic occupation was over, the Chimer were united, the Dwemer had been placated into an alliance, and Almalexia, Lady of Mournhold, was adamant that all of her people, not only the nobility, should enjoy the celebration. The process of recovering from the war would be long, but the Indoril coffers were deep enough to put a coin purse in every pocket and a sticky, syrup-soaked wickwheat cake in every hand. The children peering through the slats of the balconies at the wedding crowd below took turns calling out to Almalexia, who was not too high and mighty and return a smile and a wave, never mind the traditional Chimer rules of etiquette. Indeed, every eye was on her, the Mournhold queen lovely in a blue robe with pearls gleaming in her hair as she moved between her guests with the consummate grace of a natural diplomat.  
From across Tamriel, gifts had arrived to celebrate not only the wedding, but also the beginning of a new era in Resdayn. The Altmer of the Summerset Isles had sent a tapestry, the fine needlework of which had taken dozens of master embroiderers months of constant labour to produce; usually, said the disdainful Altmer emissary, such a tapestry took years (if not decades) to make but, as the Chimer royal wedding had been announced just six months ago, it would have to suffice. The Urshilaku Ashlanders, who had counted Lord Indoril Nerevar’s late mother as a member of their tribe, had sent fifty of the finest guar hides. From the Telvanni, the Indoril couple received several bottles of triple-distilled musk made from the unique fungi that grew in the wilds of Vvardenfell’s east coast. House Redoran had sent a triptych for the palace chapel, carved in the carapace of a giant crab and depicting the Good Daedra at their most benevolent, Azura spreading her palms in benediction at the centre.  
And, mused Sotha Sil, House Dagoth had sent their Grandmaster’s son and heir, young Dagoth Voryn. While Vivec acted out, flirting outrageously with a pair of haughty Telvanni nobles and sending occasional glances of undisguised longing in the direction of the bride, Sil sat at one of the low couches arranged around a smoking pipe, attempting to engage the acting head of House Dagoth in conversation. Members of the reclusive Dagoth clan rarely made appearances in Chimer society. In fact, Voryn’s father the Grandmaster had been overjoyed to learn that, after years of making excuses to shun political gatherings and stay in the comfort of his Vvardenfell stronghold, he was now so ill that a journey to mainland Morrowind would likely send him into the arms of his ancestors. Sil wondered, as he watched him pick at a loose thread in the scarab-patterned brocade of his formal robe, if the shy and prickly younger Dagoth regretted attending the wedding in his father’s place. They were the same age, but growing up in relative isolation, with only his brothers and the vast Dagoth library for company, had left Voryn feeling substantially unprepared for such an occasion. Sil could not help feeling sympathetic; without the task of observing and making mental note of the political tableau before him, he too would be overwhelmed by the crowd in the ballroom.  
On the other side of the room, applause broke out as Indoril Nephithah, Grandmaster of House Indoril and Almalexia’s great-aunt, made a toast to the King and Queen. The old matriarch, whose age and serene expression alone attested to the skill with which she had moved among this nest of kagouti – the Chimer court – since before the Nordic invasion, was no doubt pleased to have achieved this most illustrious accolade, an Indoril on the throne of united Resdayn. Two Indorils, really, although Nerevar, champion of Azura and war-leader of his people though he may be, had been worth less than dirt to the Indoril nobility before he wore a crown. Sil knew that this marriage was as much about protecting Nerevar from the machinations of House Indoril as it was about binding him to them. Almalexia, who was not afraid to stare proudly back at the Grandmaster as she received her toast, was a dear friend and ally to Nerevar; Sil could only hope that their partnership would withstand the pressure of their marriage.  
When Nerevar, his arm around Almalexia, caught sight of Sil and raised his glass of sujamma, the councillor smiled and shook his head.  
“They make a fine couple, do they not?” he said, turning back to Voryn.  
“Oh – yes.” Thus prompted, Voryn glanced up from his lap and said the first thing that entered his head: “He looks very handsome. Like the Prophet Veloth.”  
Not wanting to mortify Voryn by bursting out laughing, Sil took a gulp of sujamma and concentrated all his energy into swallowing it without choking. Nerevar did look striking, if a little pale and deprived of sleep. He had not made the decision to marry lightly, though it may have seemed so, coming so soon after the end of the war.  
Like everything else over the last decade of Nerevar’s life – begun as a mercenary saving money to sleep in the slum hostels of Vvardenfell and ended as the king of Resdayn, bearing the name of the Great House that had once banished his family into a life of destitution – the engagement had happened with little time to pause. It was clear, as the euphoria of their victory over the Nords began to fade, that each of the Chimer political factions would spare no effort in attempting to install one of their own as Nerevar’s spouse. There was no solution but for him to marry, quickly, which was how the three councillors had come to be in his private garden in the Mournhold palace, sharing cups of matze and attempting to console their friend, whose passionate heart they knew had no appetite for a political match. But the Hortator had not even smiled when Vivec, lounging shirtless in a chair stacked with pillows, had batted his eyelashes and declared, “I’ll marry you, Nerevar…”  
“Stop it, Vehk.” Sil’s voice was sharp, but the sigh he made as he rubbed his hand over his forehead was weary. “If Nerevar’s going to marry any of us, it should be Almalexia.”  
Vivec scrambled upright to kneel in his chair, eyes wide with indignation. “Ayem!”  
The Lady of Mournhold remained inscrutable as she took a slow sip of matze. “My councillors agree with you, Sil. As, in fact, do I…”  
It would be a fine partnership, Sil thought, beneficial for Resdayn, the Chimer, and Nerevar and Almalexia themselves, as long as they could keep hold of the real love and respect they had for one another as friends. As long as Nerevar could balance his position as Hortator with Almalexia’s ties to House Indoril, as long as the Dwemer alliance could be maintained, as long as the Nords stayed in Skyrim, as long as he and Vivec could stand beside them, as long as –  
The ballroom fell silent; Sil and Voryn turned to see the crowd near the doorway ripple and part to admit another wave of guests. A herald in full Indoril armour, plumed helm bobbing as she walked through the arched doorway, was announcing the new arrivals, who were already sweeping behind her in a procession of banners and fluttering robes. Rough seas had delayed them on their journey from Vvardenfell, but the Dwemer had made it to Mournhold in time to attend the Chimer royal wedding celebrations.  
For most of the Chimer present, this was the first time they had seen one of their strange ground-dwelling kin. Some, remembering the fairy stories of their childhoods, were surprised to see that the Dwemer contingent were not small and squat like goblins, but rather looked remarkably like themselves. They were tall and golden-skinned, draped in loose clothing of chaurus-silk and linens woven from the fibres of cave fungi and embroidered with geometric patterns unique to each clan and family. Their shoes, soft slippers made to muffle footsteps in their echoing underground cities, seemed to glide across the stone floor, giving the impression of a flock of moths fluttering toward a lamp. There in the centre of the procession, Sil could make out the familiar hawk-like face of Dumac, King of the Dwemer, who was flanked by a pair of attendants carrying the scroll and sceptre of Dwemer executive office on brocaded cushions. Dumac, who had a well-known penchant for fine dress, looked resplendent in white, gold, and red. His coarse black hair was arranged in shoulder-length braids and held back from his face by a disc-like golden diadem. His eyes, black and glittering as the shell of a shalk beetle, were lined with blue paint; gold jewellery gleamed at his wrists, throat, and fingers, and his gold pendant earrings were so long and heavy that they brushed his shoulders. The members of the Dwemer contingent were so adorned with jewellery that its clinking provided a musical accompaniment to their entrance.  
They stopped in the centre of the ballroom, Dumac now at the head with his attendants and officials fanning out behind him. Several paces away, Nerevar stood dumbstruck, looking right into the eyes of the Dwemer king. In that moment, he found himself thinking of his first trip by boat, when his family had left mainland Morrowind for Vvardenfell; the shifting and lurching of Nirn beneath his feet was so wretched that the young Nerevar would have welcomed death, had it come for him. Meeting Dumac there, with Almalexia his wife at his side, Nerevar felt the same. Several months had passed since their last meeting, when a desperate Nerevar had tried to provoke the Dwemer king into asking him to call off his engagement, and Dumac, every bit as politically minded and calculating as Almalexia herself, had refused to do so. Nerevar had left him in a state of rage and grief, lips seared by the parting kiss of lovers who have made a choice which pleases neither of them. The weight of that memory – and of many others, far sweeter – threatened to overwhelm the Chimer king, but when Dumac took his hands, there in the ballroom of the palace in Mournhold, he felt he could remember how to breathe.  
“Lord Nerevar, Lady Almalexia, my dear friends. A thousand blessings to you and your clan.” Dumac spoke in Aldmeris, a language understood by most well-educated Dwemer and Chimer, with a soft, lilting voice that belied his high station.  
He beckoned to one of his entourage, a severe Dwemer woman wearing a deep red sash, from which hung a ceramic seal of office. Behind her, two Dwemer carried a long silver box engraved with the repeating scroll-and-sceptre motif of Dwemer executive power.  
“You will of course remember Kagrenac, my Chief Tonal Architect.” Almalexia smiled, remembering the evenings she had spent with Kagrenac in Dumac’s stronghold, as the alliance took shape, debating the particulars of efficient public infrastructure and governance.  
“Your Graces,” Kagrenac began, her voice slow and measured, “we congratulate you on your wedding and offer, as a sign of the friendship between our peoples, these swords, forged by our own hands.”  
The Chimer crowd gasped and strained to catch a glimpse as the Dwemer attendants opened the box, revealing a pair of longswords which glowed and flickered with red and blue flame. They burned, yet the silk lining the box was cool and unsinged.  
“Hopesfire and Trueflame,” announced Dumac, pride in the exquisite craftsmanship clear on his face. “Hopesfire, forged by Chief Tonal Architect Kagrenac, is for the Lady Indoril Almalexia, Queen of Resdayn.” Kagrenac inclined her head at the recognition.  
“And the other?” Nerevar asked, so softly that only Dumac and Almalexia could hear.  
“The other is Trueflame, which I have forged myself for Indoril Nerevar, King of Resdayn and dear friend and ally of the Dwemer people.”  
Sotha Sil, watching from the couch, could swear that he saw Nerevar wipe a tear from his eyes. The two kings clasped hands again, and Almalexia gave eloquent enough thanks for them both, before the crowd was dispersed for the beginning of the feast. A procession of Chimer, dressed in the blue and white robes of Indoril service, carried platters of delicacies among the guests. All enjoyed the slow-roasted alit and curried saltrice with greens, which grew in abundance in the rich volcanic soil of Deshaan, but the sight of crispy fried scrib legs horrified the Altmer contingent, who stuck to sweet breads baked from ash yam flour. The Dwemer, accustomed to eating fungi, were comforted by the kwama egg pancakes filled with sautéed mushrooms.  
When the waiters began to circulate with flutes of sweet, yet strongly alcoholic, stoneflower cordial, Nerevar appeared at Sil’s side to whisper in his ear.  
“Sil, I need to meet with Lord Dumac for a moment – in my study – official matters to attend to, a king’s duties never stop…”  
Sil raised his eyebrows but said nothing; there was no point in arguing with Nerevar, who surely knew how foolish he was being.  
“Don’t be long. Your absence will be noticed. Obviously.”  
Nerevar was already striding off down the hallway, as if the fires of Red Mountain itself were at his feet. In the study adjoining his old bedroom, where he still slept when the splendour of the royal chambers became too much for a former mercenary to bear, Dumac waited, leaning back against the desk. He was delighted to find, as Nerevar melted against him and wrapped his arms around his neck, that his blush was the same conspicuous pink, his hands still the broad calloused hands of a warrior, his head still at the perfect height for Dumac to bury his nose in his hair, his embrace still warm and strong; this was his Nerevar still, whatever had happened since their last meeting.  
Nerevar pulled back for a moment, glancing toward the door that led to the bedroom. “Is there time to go…?”  
“No.” It was a short response, but Dumac was smiling, his hands warm on Nerevar’s hips. “Sit up on the desk, Nerevar.”  
When Sil was sent, an hour later, by an exasperated yet admittedly sympathetic Almalexia, to recover the king, he was relieved to find Nerevar almost fully dressed and straightening his wedding robes. Dumac’s expression didn’t change as he continued to put back on his many rings and bracelets, but Nerevar at least had the sense to look sheepish.  
“Come on, the dancing is starting. Nerevar, your girdle’s tied crooked.”  
The musicians on the mezzanine had begun a fast waltz. Dumac and Nerevar slipped back into the ballroom, via separate entrances, and were soon swept up in the dancing; Nerevar was claimed by his wife, while Dumac partnered a very drunk, yet surprisingly agile, Vivec. Sil had the displeasure of beginning the dancing with the austere Indoril Grandmaster as his partner – he swore later that she had tried more than once to trip him up – and was relieved to switch to join Kagrenac, with whom he could practice conversing in Dwemeris. Although he found dancing an awkward activity, this was always his favourite part of official occasions; by the end of the evening, drink had loosened the often severe Chimer atmosphere, and no one would notice when he snuck off alone to enjoy the peace of the gardens.  
Nerevar and Almalexia danced close by, with their heads bowed together as they whispered rapidly.  
“Nerevar, I don’t care who you fuck, but I thought you’d be wise enough to exercise restraint at our _wedding_. There’s talk.”  
“There’s always talk.” Upon Almalexia’s withering look, Nerevar wet his lips and sighed. “No, you’re right, Ayem… I’m sorry. Please don’t step on my foot.”  
Almalexia’s mouth was still set in a firm line, but her eyes began to crinkle. She did enjoy making the Hortator squirm.  
“Remember, I’m on your side. Stay on mine.”  
Nerevar nodded; they both sank into quiet contemplation, going through the motions of the dance as the rustling skirts, laughter, and conversation of their guests whirled around them. Later, sitting alone in his bed, Nerevar inspected the sword Trueflame, running his fingers over the engravings on the hilt. At the centre he found that most familiar symbol, the moon-and-star of Azura, carved for her champion by a Dwemer who had no love for Daedric princes. With the sword was a small slip of vellum on which was written – in Dumac’s fluid Aldmeris script – _Nerevar, remember; for every moon, a star._


End file.
